We Could Have Been
by gethsemane342
Summary: Circumstance can change everything between two people. Five relationships which could have been different, but for the circumstances.
1. Best Friends

**Disclaimer: I do not own THG**

**Rating: **for implied sexual themes, including darker in later chapters

**A/n: **There will be five chapters in total with 5 separate relationships between 5 pairs of people. I will try to update once a day. Hope you enjoy.

We Could Have Been

1) Best Friends

Five, four, three, two-

"If you don't stop looking at me like that, I will skin you alive."

"Seven," I say out loud.

Gloss shoots me an odd look. "Seven what?"

"Don't flatter yourself," I hear Marvel sneer. "Wouldn't be caught dead looking at _you_."

"Seven arguments. Between those two."

"You think there's going to be a problem?" Gloss asks.

I hold up my hand, just in time to hear Glimmer say, "No, I've caught you alive several times. But I can arrange for you to die, if you want."

"You wouldn't get anywhere near me."

"No, no," I answer. "I'm just enjoying it. Trying to work out who's the most likely to win."

Gloss smiles and sits next to me as we listen to the tributes argue in the next room. Glimmer and Marvel are almost completely different. Glimmer is modest, unsure and enough of an actress not to let this show. Marvel is arrogant and confident with enough of a smirk to hide his true feelings from anyone.

I don't know how much of this Gloss has picked up. He only won seven years ago. When you've been at this for as long as I have, you start to work out what the tributes are acting like and what they're really like.

"I think Glimmer," he says.

I hold up my hand again.

"Listen, Glimmy, I don't know who you've been training against but I'm fast-"

"Doesn't say much about what you wanted to practice with me then."

"Definitely Glimmer," Gloss murmurs. "I'd give her a hundred points for that."

"Different art. As you probably know," Marvel responds.

"And as you, probably, don't."

"Want to test it?"

I smile. "I think you're right," I tell Gloss. "He let her get the upper-hand."

Gloss sighs and shakes his head. "What are we going to do, Spark? They're not going to form any kind of alliance like this. They hate each other."

I look at him. "Do you really think that?"

"Just listen to them."

"I am. Listen more carefully."

We fall silent again.

"You're just annoyed 'cause you never got to meet me personally before all this," Marvel is saying.

"I'm annoyed because I got to meet you _now_."

"So are you skinning me alive or what?"

"I haven't ruled it out."

"I'll take that as a no then. Which means you _want_ me."

"In what world does it mean that?"

Gloss frowns. "They almost sound like they're _enjoying_ the argument."

I laugh. "Yep. It's a pity really."

"What is?"

"That they met here."

"Why?"

I shrug. "Imagine they met in the district. What do you think would have happened?"

"Glimmer would have kicked him somewhere he doesn't want to be kicked?"

It strikes me again just how little Gloss perceives of other people. Maybe it comes with age. I don't know. But he's intelligent enough.

"Come on, imagine you're Marvel and you meet someone who doesn't treat you like you expected. What do you do?"

To my surprise, I see a momentary flash of pain wash over his face, as though my words have triggered some bad memory. But then he smiles his charming smile and says, "I suppose I'd keep talking to them. I'd be curious."

His tone of voice is odd – it sounds right but almost too polished. I wonder if maybe there's more to Gloss than I've noticed before. Maybe he's not the only one who doesn't notice these things.

"Exactly," I say. "Glimmer's too nice to just lash out unless she's angry. And his tone of voice is too happy for her to get really angry at."

"So you're saying they'd fall in love?" Gloss asks sceptically. "I don't see that one happening. She'd kill him within thirty minutes."

"I'm not saying that. Though Marvel wouldn't mind. Probably"

"Then why..."

"What are you like with people you get on really well with? People you know better than anyone?"

Gloss' face lights up. "You're right! The pair of them do click. In a perverse, 'what the hell' way. But they can't be friends here."

I shake my head. "I wouldn't advise it. Friends here..."

"When they die, it's like nothing else," Gloss fills in softly. "Especially if you survive over them."

We sit in silence and let their argument wash over us.

"How about-"

"Do you just have a one-track mind, Marvel?"

"Maybe I'm just hiding my many talents from you, Glimmy."

"Stop calling me Glimmy."

"Or?"

"I will skin you alive."

"That's getting old, Glimster. Get a new threat."

"Come here and say that."

"Why? You can hear me from over there, can't you? 'Sides, what was it about Glimster that especially annoys you?"

Gloss shakes his head. "So, do we just let them continue?"

"Why not? They're going to anyway."

Gloss nods. "True. But I can't help thinking it would have been better ... well, I guess meeting each other will do 'em good. In one way or another."

I nod. "Might head off to bed," I say. "I think we can give Glimmer the victory overall."

"I don't know, Marvel's getting better," Gloss answers with a grin. I laugh and stand up. As I head towards the door, he adds, "It is a pity though."

"What?"

"Nothing. Just remembering something. At least we know they're not going to murder each other tonight."

"Wouldn't count on that," I say as I open the door. "After all, the more you love someone, the easier it is to hurt them."

He shakes his head. "Whatever, Spark. Stop trying to make me think so philosophically about them."

I just laugh and leave the room.


	2. Lovers

**Disclaimer: I do not own _The Hunger_****_ Games_**

2) Lovers

Sometimes, it feels as though we've been walking forever.

That's all we do, now that there are only two of us left. We just walk. Cato is constantly searching but by this point, I don't know what he's looking for and I have no goddamn idea where we're going anymore.

But I suppose this isn't how a winning tribute is supposed to think. Totally focussed, that's what I'm not. Of course.

For the hundredth time, my gaze is directed at Cato. His left arm is swinging by his side. I find myself wondering what would happen if I swung my right arm and caught his hand. And carried on walking like that.

Then I find myself imagining swinging my right arm, catching his hand then attempting to throw him onto the ground so that I kill him. That would probably be the safest option. If I did it quickly, he would never know what happened.

"What are you looking at?" Cato asks. His voice is gruff but I can hear amusement in it. He _knows_ what I was thinking.

Sometimes, I hate Cato.

"Nothing," I tell him.

"Shouldn't you be looking ahead?"

"Shouldn't you?" I shoot back.

He smirks and I have the sudden urge to slap him. He's so fricking arrogant, it's unbelievable.

(But there's something else I want to do when I see that smirk)

I stride forward, my fingers curling over the handle of one of my knives. Focus. Full focus. Don't think about anyone or anything.

"Where are you going now?" Cato asks in the same tone of voice.

"I don't know," I snap. "But where are _we_ going, Cato? Any ideas? 'Cause I think we've just been fricking wandering while you imagine killing District 12. You wanted to play leader, you tell me where we're going."

He closes the distance between us, his lips tight with anger. He tries to loom over me.

"Do you want to take that back?"

I jab with the knife I quietly pulled out.

"Not really."

There's silence as he looks down on me. I don't give an inch.

He has a small scar on his chin.

I look back to his eyes. I need to stop noticing these freaking details.

Looking in his eyes is dangerous, I realise. Not because he might kill me but because I can't look away. And in the split second that I see him lick his lips – a surprising gesture for someone so controlled – I can see he's having the same issue.

We look away at the same time.

"Let's just keep going," Cato mutters.

"Fine by me."

We stride in silence. I keep looking ahead. But then I notice something.

"What are _you_ looking at?" I sneer.

The flash of shock is worth it. Cato never thinks anyone can tell what he's up to.

"Nothing," he mutters and he looks away from my hand.

"Just as long as _you're_ looking ahead too."

He makes a rude gesture at me but there's a smirk on his face.

I don't know how long we keep walking for. I'm still not completely focussed on finding tributes. I just don't want to look at Cato.

I think the problem is that we work together well. When he isn't trying to act scary, he has a dark sense of humour which matches mine. He plans well, his rages are easy to control and, besides, I'm faster than he is. When we've talked, we have a surprising amount in common. Surprising considering I've spent most of my life having my mother train me for these stupid Games and the rest of it planning how to kill my mother once I win.

I'm just about to suggest we give up marching aimlessly for the day when the anthem blasts out. Out of habit, we both stop and look at the sky. And that's when it happens.

Claudius Templesmith speaks. He repeats himself. But I still don't understand.

"Did he say-"

"Yeah," I whisper.

We look at each other. The distance between us hasn't changed but it suddenly feels a lot smaller. Because both of us can win. We could both go home. Then-

"There must be a catch."

And suddenly, that one metre has changed to ten.

"Must there?" I ask and I mentally wince because I sound so soft.

Cato isn't looking at me. "Come on, Clove. Don't be naive."

Normally, that stings. But suddenly, more than anything, I want to be naive. I want us both to be.

"So you think-"

"It's a show, isn't it? That's what we're here for. To win a TV show. You knew that when you volunteered."

His voice is flat and he still won't look at me.

"But if we put on a good enough show, we could..."

"What?"

"I don't know, OK?" I snap. "All I know is they said there's a rule change. That means _both_ of us can win if we carry on together. And you, what, you want to kill me instead?"

"I didn't say that."

I don't respond. He still won't look at me.

"How about this, then, Cato? I'll leave now. That way, you can do whatever the hell you want, I'll do whatever the hell I want and if we're both alive at the end, I'll kill you."

I turn away but his hands grab my shoulders and turn me around. He crushes me with his arms.

"You want District 12 to win?" he yells. "You're not leaving or I will kill you now."

I try to wriggle out, unable to breathe. He moves his face forward and his lips open by my ear.

"You think I don't want us both to win?" he whispers, almost too quietly for me to hear. "That I don't want us to go home and ... you know. I know you know. If you don't then I don't think I want us to win at all."

He places me back on the ground, shaking with anger. I resist the urge to touch the bruises I'm going to get from that embrace. He grips his sword and carries on walking, not bothering to see if I keep up. I hesitate and then follow him.

Because even if we're not both going to win I can't bear to not spend my remaining time with him. I hate myself for it.

We keep walking.

I still look at his hands.


	3. Estranged

**Disclaimer: I do not own **The Hunger Games

3) Estranged

They send for me just before my shift is due to start.

No one is ever sure what to feel when they call for you specifically. It could be something good – a promotion, for example. More often than not, it's something bad. A demotion. Somewhere worse than the sewers. Closer to the defences covering the Capitol.

They won't look at me as I walk. Avoxes here don't tend to. The friend you make today might be the one whose legs are accidently blown off tomorrow. Just like no one above is attached to us, it's not worth it for anyone below to become close.

As I follow the Peacekeepers, I desperately try to think of what I could have done. It's been five years since I was made an avox and I've tried so hard to play it safe. Dreaming of the day they'll let me see sunlight again. As though that's going to happen.

I'm led higher and higher up, towards the entrance. I don't get time to hesitate or sign a question before I'm pushed through and straight into the main office. And there, smiling at me, is my brother.

I keep looking around, waiting for some kind of catch.

"Pollux, you're free," Castor says. "We did it. We got the money."

I stare at him, too scared to believe him. But he just smiles at me. Then he walks towards me and encompasses me in a hug.

I still can't move. When he lets me go, I look at him and ask him _why_ with my eyes.

But he just says, "Let's go."

He never answers that question. Every time he's visited me, I've tried to ask him _why_. Why does he stand by me? Our parents were quick to disown me when I lost my tongue and my friends pretended they'd never met me. But Castor has never once given up on me.

He said he'd keep trying to visit me and even though I told myself this was the month he wouldn't come, he'd be there, bribing the Peacekeepers with something so that he could see me. Constantly telling me he was working on getting me free.

He'd be tired from jobs, working long hours, and I'd tell myself this was the time it would be too much. He wouldn't come for me this time. And he'd still be there, telling me he wasn't giving up. Telling me to be careful down there.

"Leave," the Peacekeeper growls and Castor tugs me away. He opens the door and even though it's night outside, the light is so bright that it hurts my eyes. After all the time down in the sewers.

"You'll be living with me, Pol," Castor says. "I've got a spare room and I know someone who'll take you on once I've given you a crash course in camera work. Of course, it's only to refresh your memory from before."

I look at him and though my hands still won't move, I try to ask him _why_ with my eyes. But he keeps walking. It seems almost unbearably noisy up here so I focus only on Castor. I try to think of what it's cost him to do this. And why, why, _why_ he's still helping me.

He leads me through streets and roads, describing his apartment to me. I nod to show I'm keeping up and eventually, we reach a building which he unlocks and leads me upstairs.

"I'll grab some food. I bet you're hungry?"

I nod and he turns before I can ask him, _why_.

It shouldn't be this way. I know how the Capitol works. I've had five years to learn it. You don't help each other out.

He hands me some food. I put some in my mouth; it's better than anything I can remember eating. I keep eating and he just laughs as he picks at his own. The shadows under his eyes betray the tension in his body. But he keeps smiling at me.

I turn to him and sign, _how_. He tells me about the work he's done. All of the contacts he's made, the way he's lived. More than anyone should have to do. But he doesn't answer the real question behind my _how_.

He starts to get up, to show me to where I'll be sleeping. And then I place my hand on his arm and I finally sign, _why_.

He simply smiles. "We're brothers, Pol," he says. "I told you, brothers don't give up on each other. If it'd been the other way around, you'd have gotten me out of there."

I try to sign to him that I'll repay him one day but he stops me and tells me not to worry. Just don't snore. His tone is light although there's still tension in his body.

He leaves me alone in the room before I can do anything else. It's more space than I've had for years and warmer and quieter. But I can't help thinking, _why_. _Why_ am I lucky enough to have Castor as a brother? _Why_ didn't he just leave me when I was taken? _Why_ has he stood by me all this time? Because we're brothers?

Maybe there doesn't need to be more of a reason than that. Just because family loyalty counts for little in the Capitol doesn't mean it should. Maybe Castor's always realised this. I don't know. But I do know this: no matter how long we live, I'll never be able to repay what Castor has done for me.


	4. Enemies

**Disclaimer: I do not own **The Hunger Games

4) Enemies

I've been staring at this screen for what feels like hours. It almost bores me. If it wasn't for the sake of the honour of District 2, I'd probably have stopped ages ago. I've never been good at sitting still.

I look around. There's only one other mentor nearby though some of the others are milling around the screens. I get up and walk over to Chaff, clasping him on the shoulder.

"Chaff!"

He looks around. "Hi, Brutus."

He's smiling but his eyes are blank. The guy lost his wife and kid a few years ago and I don't think he ever got over it. But he's one of the only people here I can have a decent conversation with.

I look at his screen. "So yours is being stalked by mine. Wanna bet on who'll win?"

"Not really. Rather wait it out."

"Alright," I say though part of me is disappointed. I wander back to my screen. My boy runs towards Chaff's kid but he's obviously trained his well because the kid turns and hacks at my boy, just as the District 4 girl arrives. But District 11 has already stabbed my boy. I swear loudly.

The girl beheads District 11. I see Chaff kick something. But he doesn't move. I consider my options and then I walk over to him. I grip his shoulder.

"I'll get you a drink," I tell him.

"I didn't bet, Brutus," he snaps, a spark of anger in his eyes.

I pause. Normally, I wouldn't let something like that go. It would escalate into a fight. But I like Chaff. It's worth placating him a little if I can keep having someone to talk to.

"I didn't mean it like that," I say. "Let's go and grab a drink and we'll drink to their memories, alright? Stichus died the way he'd have wanted – he fought someone who was better than him. He'd respect it. And your kid did well."

Chaff doesn't move. I keep looking at him. I'm not really sure what's so bothersome about this but Chaff's always been a bit of an oddball. I mean, he refused to get his hand replaced after his Games though what he can do with a stump is a mystery. But I keep my hand out and finally, he clasps it with his good hand and stands up. I clap him on the back.

"Where were you thinking of going?" he asks.

"Just down to the canteen. I mean, it's not like we have many places to be now." Seeing his look, I add, "And we can quickly grab something and sit somewhere quiet."

He nods and follows me down. I buy the drinks, telling him that I don't think he's in a state to buy them. He scowls but I don't reckon he'd have liked my actual reasoning – his kid died after mine so I owe him the drink.

People look surprised as we walk away together. District 2 mentors don't talk to the others often but I don't see how it's anyone's business. Chaff's leading the way and I follow him. He doesn't listen to me as I talk but that doesn't really bother me. Guy's a bit cut up about his tribute I think. Guess he's got other things on his mind.

Finally he stops in a disused room and we sit down. I hand him one of the bottles.

"To our tributes," I say, raising the bottle.

He raises his bottle. "To Stichus and Emmer," he responds and we drink. I don't pay attention to the taste but he gulps it down. For a few seconds, we're silent. Then he says, "Thanks, Brutus."

I shrug. "No problem, Chaff."

"Why'd you do it anyway?"

"Do what?"

"This."

"I thought you needed a drink and some way to come to terms with it."

He's silent for a few seconds. Then he says, "Yeah."

We continue to drink. I make a few attempts at conversation but Chaff still isn't in a talkative mood. We get more odd looks. I ignore them. I can be friends with whoever the hell I want.

After another ten minutes, Chaff suddenly asks me who I think will win the Games. I tell him the girl from my district because she's well trained and smart. I ask him who he thinks will win but he shrugs and says he doesn't know. Then he asks what I tell the families of the tributes who don't win.

I try to answer as best as I can. I get the feeling he's looking for something from me and I'm not answering right but since I'm no mind reader, I can't do any better than my best. Maybe it's because he's drunk. That's probably it. He won't even remember it tomorrow.

We finish off our drinks. I suggest going back up and facing the cameras but Chaff doesn't want to yet so we carry on sitting in the room. He passes a few comments and I answer back. He looks more relaxed than before and when we finally do leave, our conversation is only a bit awkward.

As we walk back, Chaff nods to a few people but I don't get the same response off them when I do it. It doesn't bother me since most people here are complete idiots or so weak that I wonder how they ever won the Games. I don't argue with them but I don't try to talk to them much either.

Finally, we reach the upstairs area. Chaff looks at me.

"Ready, Brutus?" he asks.

I shrug. "Sure."

He grins. "May as well head on in then. Thanks for the drink."

"Sure."

"Next time, it's on me."

I nod and he walks through the door to the flashing cameras. I wait a few seconds. It's not done for competing tributes' mentors to walk into these things together. It strikes me as odd. The tributes fight each other and so do the mentors' to some extent. If any of us had been in the arena together, we'd have been trying to kill each other. But that's not necessarily true for the rest of the time. Loads of the victors make friends with each other. I don't, usually. I treat them like the tributes. But there's nothing wrong with making friends, really. Not if we don't have to kill each other. We can still talk, right?

Guess it'll depend on whether Chaff ever buys me that drink.


	5. Family

**Disclaimer: I do not own _The Hunger Games_. **

**Author's disclaimer:** _I assume people know this but views of characters in fics I write do not necessarily represent my own views. Usually I don't say this but there is something in this one which may be a potentially controversial issue so I'd like to emphasise that the view expressed is not necessarily mine._

**A/n: **Last one. I hope you've enjoyed it. I assume someone has been because people have been reading the previous chapters. If you didn't but read this anyway, let me know and I'll suggest a better hobby than reading something you dislike (concrit is also accepted). If you keep clicking on the chapters accidently, I advise a new mouse ;)

5) Family

The nights before the Games begin are always strange when I'm not a mentor. I almost feel like I don't know what to do with myself at odd times of the day and night. No one wants to interview me, I have no tributes to mentor but I'm supposed to show my face. I've always hated that.

I slipped out some time ago to walk around the gardens near the Training Centre. Gardens like this just don't exist in District 8. People in the Capitol almost don't seem to know how lucky they are to have them. I suppose that right now, they're watching reruns of the pre-Games activities. I don't mind. I like having the gardens to myself.

I'm so used to the lack of people that I don't see Cashmere until I've walked into her. She jumps backwards. I clutch my stomach instantly.

"Watch it, Cecelia," she snarls.

"Sorry!" I reply. "Are you OK?"

"I'm fine," she mutters. I stand to one side to let her pass and then I look at her face. There are tears forming.

"Cashmere, are you sure you're OK? I'm sorry, sometimes I can be-"

"I'm _fine_," she snarls as tears slide down her cheeks.

"But you're crying."

She looks at me and then, to my surprise, begins to sob. For a second, I don't know what to do – I don't think we've ever had a full conversation before – but then I walk over to her and put my arms around her. She leans into my hold and I find myself rubbing her back and whispering calming things.

After a few minutes, I guide us to a nearby bench. Her sobs have subsided but I keep my arm around her. Finally, she moves away from me, still sniffing. I've never seen her be anything less than icily composed.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask.

"No."

"OK," I say and sit there awkwardly. I can handle my little son when he cries fine and my daughter is easy. But there is a six year difference between myself and Cashmere and she _still_ intimidates me.

Her eyes suddenly snap towards me. "You're pregnant," she says.

"Er ... yes."

"Is it a boy or a girl?"

"I don't know."

"I can't have children."

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

I shrug, helplessly.

She sighs and her voice loses its anger as she says, "I'm sorry, Cecelia. It's been a hard day. I only really found that out today."

"But you could ... I suppose it's not my place to suggest things."

She shrugs. "I can't anything. I'm stuck."

"How?"

She's silent and so I look away. I probably shouldn't have said anything.

"You know what ... why some of us come to the Capitol, don't you?" she suddenly says in a low voice. I turn to her but she won't look at me. "Outside the Games. When we meet new people."

I have to think for a moment. I've never been particularly inclined to listen to rumours but one or two have made their way to me. I've certainly heard hints from the other victors about reasons why Finnick Odair goes to the Capitol so often.

"Yes."

"And you know I..."

"Yes." At least, I can assume as much now.

She nods. "I was told today that I'm ... to keep myself available. Not tied down in any way." She keeps looking straight ahead. "It's been hard to come to terms with that."

I stare at her. "You mean you can't have a-"

"No."

"But ... I mean, how long for?"

"Until I'm thirty. At least."

I try to imagine being told I couldn't have a family. I find myself giving Cashmere another hug.

"You know the worst thing?" she asks. I shake my head. "It's not like I was ever going to _have_ children. Not really. But I can't even have anyone with me, just to be with me."

"Why weren't you going to have children?" I ask before I can stop myself.

She looks at me as though I'm stupid. "How was I going to have children?"

"Um ... the usual way?"

She snorts. "You don't know anything about me, do you, Cecelia?"

"No," I say.

"I don't _want_ the usual way."

I look at her and something clicks. Vague images flood through my head. "I do remember," I say slowly. "You don't like men, right?"

"I like them fine. I just don't want to _be_ with them."

I wince. This is obviously a touchy subject which I am in no way qualified to discuss. "Sorry."

"What for?"

"For being insensitive?"

There's a moment of silence and then she smiles. "You're not being insensitive," she says softly. "I'm just touchy today. I'm the one who should be sorry – I walk into you, shout at you, cry on you and then tell you off for not knowing about my private life."

I smile back. "Let's say we're both at fault and leave it at that."

We're silent for another couple of minutes. I'm beginning to think of making an excuse to leave when she says, "I did want to adopt, though."

"Sorry?"

"I mean, I've had seven years to come to terms with the fact I won't give birth. No technology is going to be given to me for it and the other options just don't feel right anyway. But I thought, if I found someone, I could adopt from the Community Home. Maybe it's for the better. I don't even know if I _have_ maternal instinct."

"You could still do that," I tell her. "Once you're ... free. What's stopping you from settling down and adopting a child if you want?"

"Do you think I'm ever really going to be free?"

I want to tell her yes. But she's icily beautiful and President Snow can easily threaten her. The fact is, I'm lucky because I don't stand out in crowds and because I met my husband so quickly. I've never been in that situation.

"I don't know. But I hope so."

She nods. Then she looks at me with a question in her eyes but she turns red. I ask her what she wanted to say.

"Do you ... do you feel the baby?"

"Yes. Kicks all the time." Then I realise what she's thinking. "Would you like to touch?"

"Really? Can I?"

The hope in her voice catches me off guard. I've never seen her like this before. I take hold of her hand and guide it to my bump. She smiles and it's so childlike that I have to smile back. Sometimes, I forget that she's only twenty-two.

"Thank you," she says.

"It's fine." Suddenly, an idea occurs to me. "Cashmere, I have a question for you." She looks at me, her blue eyes wary. "In District 8, we have the old tradition of Godparents for our children. My husband's brother is my son's Godfather and his best friend is our daughter's so we've agreed I can pick the next one. Would you do me the honour of being this one's Godmother?"

"What?" she whispers.

"You could visit whenever and play with them whenever."

"But I can't exactly travel to District 8 often."

"I can bring them here, I'm sure. Whenever we're both in the Capitol."

She hesitates. "Why me?"

"I don't think anyone else could be as good a Godmother as you."

She pauses and then deflates. "I can't," she whispers. "At the moment, if I mess up, Gloss and my parents will pay the price. I ... I can't do that to you and your family as well."

"I don't mind," I whisper back.

"I do. Your child deserves someone who can visit them all of the time and play with them. Someone who won't put them in danger. I wish I could. But I can't."

She stands up. I stand up as well. She starts to walk back to the Training Centre and I follow.

"Are you sure?" I ask after ten minutes.

"Yes." Her voice is tight. She looks as though she's trying not to cry.

We reach the entrance. "You know you're always welcome to visit," I tell her.

She hugs me. "Thank you, Cecelia. For listening and for ... everything." She pulls back. "I'd better go in."

"Bye, Cashmere."

She nods and I watch as her face becomes icily composed with a slight sneer and she suddenly walks ahead. We're not going to talk again, I can tell. She's scared enough of getting her family killed that she won't let any of us die either. We'll go back to pretending we don't know each other. Which, I suppose, we don't.

I walk in and go to talk to someone else from District 8. Across the room, Cashmere catches my eye and for a brief second, smiles. Then she looks away. I look away at the same time. The baby kicks.

_**Fin**_


End file.
